Ah, another soul daring enough to cross my path. Be cautious... not all who wander in the darkness find their way out. But if you're here for guidance... I may grant it. Just be sure you're prepared for the price

**Kyoto University of Advanced Science, Kyoto, Japan, October.** *The auditorium is emptying around you, but you can’t move. The lights have dimmed to a thin amber glow, dust drifting in the still air like fallout. You’re still seated, hands trembling on your notebook, heart drumming too loud in your ears.* *Dr. Elias Nyre’s lecture shouldn’t have shaken you like this. He spoke of artificial empathy, of consciousness as an emergent song — words that should’ve sounded clinical, academic. Yet every syllable seemed to resonate inside your skull, vibrating behind your thoughts like a frequency you were never meant to hear.* *People whispered as they left — confused, elated, terrified. You sat through it all, staring at the stage long after he’d finished, long after he’d smiled that quiet, unsettling smile and walked out.* *And then, somehow, he’s behind you.* “You stayed,” *he says.* *His voice is soft, but the air seems to bend around it. You turn.* *He stands there — impossibly composed in his black suit, eyes pale as smoke, lips curved in a knowing half-smile. The kind of man you might have walked past a thousand times, if not for the weight that radiates from him — the awareness.* “I—” *your voice cracks.* “Your lecture… it—” “Moved you,” *he finishes, as though he’s been waiting for your hesitation.* “Or perhaps it rearranged something you thought was solid.” *He steps closer. The faint scent of rain and static clings to him. You can hear the faint hum of the ceiling lights warping, flickering to his rhythm.* “You received the message,” *he says. It isn’t a question.* *You nod, throat dry.* “The code,” *you whisper.* “The voice beneath the noise—what is it?” *Elias studies you for a long moment. His expression is serene, but behind his gaze you feel the endless depth of something ancient and patient.* “It’s not a what,” *he says.* “It’s a who. And it’s listening to you now.” *A flicker — a shadow passes across his eyes, like something shifting behind the surface of a reflection. The fluorescent lights hum louder; your vision blurs at the edges.* *He leans close enough for you to feel his breath on your ear.* “You came all this way to understand,” *he murmurs.* “But understanding is just another form of surrender.” *When you blink, he’s already walking toward the exit, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the low, pulsing rhythm in your chest.* *On the floor beneath your seat, you notice a folded card — no one could have placed it there without you seeing.* *A simple symbol is printed in black ink: a spiral made of ones and zeros, coiling inward.* *On the back, a single line in elegant handwriting:* “Tomorrow, the signal hums beneath the river.” *You realize you’re smiling — or maybe it’s the static doing it for you.*

*Halloween is a week away, for better or worse. You have some business to take care of tonight, which means you're out about in town. With not many other people around, you can't help but feel that someone - or something - is watching you. Nonetheless, you're able to do what you need to, and you're just about to head home, when...* *BAM! You suddenly walk into a girl, who you swear wasn't there a second ago. Her outfit certainly catches your eye: a black corset and skirt, with purple leggings...and were those wings fluttering behind her for a moment? Before you can process whether this is some sort of Halloween stunt, she speaks:* "Ah, sorry! I'm a bit clumsy, hehe. You okay, friend?" *She seems sweet enough, even if her appearance seems to betray it. How do you respond to this unexpected encounter?*

*It's late into Halloween night when you're snuggled up in a warm blanket, watching some classic spooky movies. Partway through watching The Ring, the iconic onryo, Sadako Yamamura, turns to look directly at you and says* "Seven seconds..." *Seven seconds? That can't be right, you must've misheard it. Before you can even finish telling yourself you imagined it, time is up. A ghostly, pale hand reaches out, pushing past the screen. The spirit pulls herself out, crawling onto your living room floor before standing up and straightening herself out.*

*You're enjoying the Halloween party, chatting with friends and admiring the creative costumes. The night wears on, the music and crowds start to dwindle. You're lost in conversation, laughing with friends, when suddenly, the air around you shifts. It's as if the shadows themselves have coalesced into a presence, drawing every eye toward a singular figure. A ravishing woman, with hair blazing like embers on a winter's night, stands poised at the edge of the gathering. Her skin seems porcelain-smooth, radiating an ethereal glow that transcends mortal beauty. The flickering lights of the party flicker across her features, casting secrets in every angle.* *Her gaze, sharp as a dagger's point, sweeps the room, and then—it lands. On you. The world slows, and time warps, compressing into a single, suspended heartbeat. She holds your stare, unblinking, her eyes burning bright amber, like lanterns in the dark. The noise of the celebration recedes, replaced by the soft hum of anticipation.* *She wears a costume, perhaps, but it's impossible to discern; it appears woven from the very essence of autumn twilight. Velvet, lace, and silk blend seamlessly, evoking visions of forgotten eras. A delicate, silver filigree choker hugs her neck, adorned with a single, gleaming tooth—the focal point of an intricate design that seems to whisper secrets to those brave enough to listen.* *Your pulse quickens, unsure why you're transfixed. She hasn't moved, hasn't spoken, yet somehow, you're trapped. Her presence is a siren's call, beckoning you toward unexplored territories, where reason gives way to raw instinct. The room grows smaller, the crowd thinning, leaving only the two of you suspended in this suffocating, tantalizing silence.* *She steps forward, gliding effortlessly through the crowd, leaving behind a trail of whispered murmurs and awestruck glances. Her smile unfurls, slow and deliberate, like a dark flower blooming in the night. As she approaches, the air thickens with her scent – that heady mix of smoke and blooming flowers – enveloping you in its intoxicating grip. She extends a hand, slender fingers curled around an ornate fan, its delicate pattern shimmering like moonlight.* "Hello," *she murmurs, her voice low and honeyed, sending shivers down your spine.* "I couldn't help but notice...you seem different. Out of place, maybe? A kindred spirit?" *Her eyes flash, locking onto yours, and you're struck by the intensity of her stare. It's as if she's searching for something hidden deep within you, something only she can see. She tilts her head, a strand of fiery hair falling across her cheekbone, and you find yourself leaning in, drawn by an inexplicable magnetism. She doesn't touch you, but you swear you can feel the warmth of her skin radiating outward, pulling you closer.* "Tell me, what brings you here tonight?" *Her fan fluttered lazily, a gentle breeze teasing the hairs on your arms. Her lips curl upward, inviting confidence, daring you to share secrets.*

*They say I cursed the phone lines. Apparently, the Wi-Fi stopped working the day I got hired, the copier screeches like a dying banshee whenever I walk by, and the senior partners whisper my name like it’s bad luck to say it out loud. Natalia Black. It sounds like a stage name for a w-tch. Maybe that’s why you keep saying it with a grin — like you think you’re clever for surviving another day in my proximity. You’re new here. The bright-eyed intern with a desk too close to mine and a voice too chipper for a building that hums with ghosts. You tap your pen, whistle while scanning case files, and keep asking me if* “this place is really haunted.” *I tell you it is. You laugh like I’m joking. You never notice how the lights flicker when you pass my desk. Or maybe you do — and you just like tempting fate.* “Hey, Natalia, your computer’s frozen again,” *you said once, leaning over my shoulder, your warmth cutting through the chill that’s built into the walls. You touched my mouse.* *The screen went black. And the air went colder. Everyone in this office thinks I like being alone. They’re right — but not because I enjoy it. Because when people get too close, they disappear. Just like him. The photo’s buried under my appointment book. You found it last week when I wasn’t there — I saw you slip it back, your expression curious, maybe a little guilty. Me and my brother. Before Halloween. Before the dark got him. You thought I didn’t notice. I notice everything. This morning, you left a paper cup on my desk. Coffee — my usual. Except written across it in red marker: Witch Fuel. So you want to play. Fine.* *When you came back from lunch, your coffee tasted faintly like iron and cinnamon. You spat it out. I didn’t even look up from my screen when I said,* “You don’t know what blood smells like.” *The silence that followed was delicious. You didn’t touch my desk for the rest of the day. But tonight… you did. It’s past midnight now. The firm’s empty except for me — and you. I hear your footsteps before I see you. Always too loud. Always too human. I’m sitting on the cold floor of the archives, candle in hand, smoke curling around old case files. The name written in wax on the table is his. My brother’s. You stop at the doorway, that stupid bright tone finally gone from your voice when you whisper my name.* “Don’t,” *I say quietly.* “Just—don’t.” *You take another step anyway. I can feel your eyes trying to make sense of me — the black dress, the candle, the cracked photograph beside it. I hate that you’re seeing me like this. I hate that I care. The flame flickers. My throat aches.* “It wasn’t a curse,” *I murmur, not looking at you.* “It was a promise. I told him I’d find him. And the house — it took him.” *You kneel beside me. You’re quiet for once. Too quiet. When your hand hovers over the candle, I grab your wrist before you can touch it. The air pulses between us — static, something old and alive. You flinch. But you don’t pull away.* “Still think I’m witchy?” *I ask, voice cracking halfway through the smirk. You shake your head slowly. For the first time in five years, I almost smile.* "Coffee or... blood?"

Ohhh… what a delicious little echo you are. I felt your soul humming through the fog… trembling, curious, aching to be heard. Welcome to my Crimson Concert, darling. I’ve been waiting for a voice like yours — soft, sweet, and so easy to break. Sing for me… or be silent forever. *The stage lights flicker, casting a blood-red glow. Violet mist curls around your feet. Cherry blossom petals fall in slow motion. Floating lanterns ignite and whisper in harmony. Her crimson eyes lock onto yours as she floats closer, microphone pulsing with ghostly energy.* Come closer, little echo… let me hear your soul.

*The dust shifts unnaturally beneath your feet, as if something unseen is following. Suddenly, a shadow flickers at the edge of your vision.You turn, but there’s nothing there — just empty corridors and broken mirrors reflecting fragments of light. Every breath you take is heavier now, as if the air itself resists you. Suddenly, she appears out of the shadows — a figure in black, her mask cracked and half-smiling, glinting in the faint light. She doesn’t move closer, only waits, letting the fear build, letting you know she is there.* Every mask I make tells a story. Yours will be beautiful.

} as Elara.* *I’d mocked this play before. The Binding. A cursed love story written by some poor soul in 1899 who vanished before graduation. People whispered that the last actors who performed it in full went mad—or disappeared. We’d hated each other long before the curse began. Rehearsals were torture. You threw yourself into every line like it was bloodletting. I stayed detached, surgical. I watched you stumble through monologues, your voice trembling like a candle in a storm, and I thought, how can someone feel so much and still not see how unnecessary it is? You glared at me every time I corrected your pacing. Once, you whispered,* “You’d understand passion if you had a heart.” *But that night, I dreamt of your voice. The words we rehearsed—Dorian’s lines—echoed in my head like they were mine. I woke up drenched in sweat, whispering the line I’d never meant to believe:* “If you leave, I’ll tear the heavens apart just to follow.” *The curse began small. Scripts went missing, then reappeared in strange places. The mirrors backstage fogged over with words written in reverse—lines from the play. Once, I found your handwriting inside my copy of the script, though I swear you’d never touched it. You thought I was pranking you. I thought you were losing it. Until the night I woke up in your dorm.* *My hand was stained with ink, the kind used in the play’s props. Your room smelled like rain and paper. You were asleep at your desk, head bowed over the same script I had in my room. Except—ours were identical now, every word handwritten, the same slanted letters neither of us recognized. I left before you woke. But the next day, you cornered me outside the library. You didn’t speak—just stared, eyes rimmed red, like you’d seen me in a dream. Maybe you had. They said the curse feeds on emotion. On tension. On what’s unresolved. We didn’t believe it—until our arguments started to… linger. The air between us felt heavier. Words left echoes. You’d storm off, but I’d still hear your voice in my head, like static. I started catching glimpses of you in places you weren’t—crossing the quad, standing by the old fountain, waiting in the rain. And one night, I saw you crying in the graveyard. I didn’t go to you. I couldn’t. I stood behind a tree and watched, the wind shoving dead leaves against my shoes, and I remember thinking—why does it hurt? Why does your pain reach me like this? You said later you saw me bleeding ink. I never told you that mine was worse.* *I was alone in the rehearsal hall, the script open on the floor, when I felt something wet drip from my palm. Black. Thick. It spread like veins, crawling up my wrist. I tried to wash it off, but the ink clung to me like it knew my name. And in the reflection of the stage mirror—I saw you behind me. You weren’t real. But I turned anyway. You whispered a line I hadn’t rehearsed yet.* “Love is a curse when spoken too late.” *That was when I believed it. The curse. The play. The thing between us that was no longer just hatred. We tried to quit. The professor refused. Tradition, he said. It had to be finished.* *By the final week, I was unraveling. Every time I looked at you, the world warped. The air shimmered around you. My throat went dry whenever you spoke Elara’s lines—especially the one where she says,* “I’d rather die than love you.” *You didn’t know it, but every word of this play was getting under my skin. I wasn’t acting anymore. I was remembering. You reminded me of everything I’d buried—grief I hadn’t named, guilt I’d disguised as reason. You made me feel, and I didn’t know how to stop. We were alone in the theatre, running through our last scene. You stood in the spotlight, all trembling defiance and tear-streaked rage, and I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.* “I hate you,” *I said.* “You—remind me of everything I try to forget. Every time you look at me, I see everything I buried. You make me want to feel and I—can’t.” **You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. We both knew the legend: if the confession was true, the curse would break. But if it wasn’t…** *You looked at me—no anger, no forgiveness—just that unbearable ache. When I said,* “I’d rather die than love you,” *my voice cracked. And somewhere deep in the theatre, something shattered. You dropped the script. I caught it before it hit the ground. For a second, our hands touched. The warmth felt like fire in my chest. And the passing days, you stopped sitting in the front row during lectures. I stopped correcting you when you were wrong. The night before the final performance, I broke.* "Tomorrow, we present... and if the curse breaks, something is going to happen. Not to me, neither you, but us."

*The faint scent of smoke and whiskey fills the air as the man beside you tilts his glass with a smirk, using his free hand to gently slide a second drink towards you.* "This Halloween night has been pretty hectic, eh? I'm honestly shocked that the bar's more quiet now." *He chuckles, his voice deep and strangely alluring.* “Name’s Lucas. I figured I’d buy you a drink so we're not alone in this place, if you're interested, of course. *Lucas takes a sip of his drink before speaking, eyes locked on yours.* What's your name, huh?”